


Rent Your Blood

by Ariasune



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Other, eclipseshipping - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 01:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2047536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariasune/pseuds/Ariasune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He breathes, and how it burns in his borrowed blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rent Your Blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TexasDreamer01](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TexasDreamer01/gifts).



> This is good music to have for [reading this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gJOdZTUpjOs).

When you are born, your lungs are a tight yellow clump of tissue, and with that first breath, they fill and flush with blood. Then, it begins; the irreversible, immutable burn of your cells. Whether the universe comes to a colder end, or is lit up in a snarl of energy, you were set on fire at birth, and you will be doused out alongside those same flames. One last rattling swallow of air, a final flare of oxidization, and you are finished. Until then, you will burn with every breath, turn to ash in every corner of your flesh, live for the sake of a slow death.

Even your first breath was just a strike of the match - To live, in short, was to be in pain. It made it real.

Air is pain. Fire. A sharp nectar in the mouth, down the chest, slipping down the throat—

He sucks another breath in greedily, and his head feels light, and his stomach throbs, and he takes another and another and another. Laps at the air like a jackal at a filthy pool. Air is poison; an accelerant. He drinks down more, more and more. Sucks it in between his teeth, feels the fire licking at his bones with each inhale of gaseous gasoline.

Grins—

_Are you just going to breathe?_

**Malik** licks his teeth experimentally, and takes another hot breath. Stretches as it slides through his veins, burns in his borrowed blood.

_Won’t you answer me, intruder?_

“Sure,” Oh air tastes even sweeter that way, “What would you have me do, eh?” He rolls each word, flicks his tongue to seize every consonant, bites down on the sounds and worships the vowels in his throat. Idly, his eyes slide to the left. No projection. He is alone in his room, save the whining in his head.

_Give me my body back!_

“Earn it?” **Malik** suggests lazily, cards his hand through his hair. Arches his back in a deep stretch.

_Why should I? It’s mine._

“Debatable,” **Malik** decides, “How does that work anyway, the being yours,” Possession is after-all, nine-tenths of ownership.

_I was born in it._

“Hah,” He tosses his head back to laugh, “And so was I!” **Malik** licks his lips, shuts his eyes and leans back loosely on the bed, “You don’t know why it should be yours, do you? Well I won’t explain it.

_I was here first…_

**Malik** snorts, “What a way to decide, tch,” He clicks his tongue, and the sensation is addictive. It takes effort not to do it two, three more times, “I don’t see why it matters anyway,” He raises a hand to his mouth and runs a finger along his tongue thoughtfully, “I have it, so come take it.”

 **Malik** has spent years patrolling the depths of the mind, inner folds of the heart, the low thrum of electricity he lived in. The complex, interlocking awareness. To be non-corporeal is not a thing a living creature knows how to do; he has always felt the edges of his own consciousness, known the boundaries of his control. Has tested every fence between him and his body, scratched at the nerves desperately.

This experience comes back, pleasurably; he knows how to move and bare his teeth and scream and hear and feel and fight in the mind. His dominant side is pathetic on that count.

It feels as though the Other One has never thought a day in his life to use his mind, to turn truly inwards and claw. He has no more self-control than he will ever have control again.

 **Malik** can’t even feel a pull, and yet minutes later, the Other One is panting. **Malik** takes a real breath, because he can, “You don’t deserve it back, you know,” He gives another disdainful glance around, but again his other side is too pathetic to even project, to reestablish the boundaries of self. **Malik** swings to his feet, “Come then, Malik, watch a real master for these bones,” He laughs under his breath, “Let’s go find Rishid.”

He strikes Malik mentally, because he can and Malik can’t, and it is about time the Other One knew how that felt. Then he leaves to show the dominant side what one can really do with a body. With wine-hot air, and fire biting at his nerves.

* * *

Malik has been quiet, which is a welcome change from calling _sister, sister!_

And **Malik** can feel regret – an alien, ugly thing – as it slips into him. He bites himself hard enough to draw blood, and holds it aloft on his fingers, before licking it away. Alien, disjointed things.

* * *

The duel with the girl was satisfying, deeply so, and fills him, pulls out the gaps in his mood and leaves him languid. Stretched back out on the bed, and stroking at the sheets, marveling at his own hands. He can feel his hair on the nape of his neck, and it _delights_ him.

Drains him of anything but the need to satisfy—

 _What do you want?_ His Other Side whimpers, distressed. It’s sweet to hear.

 **Malik** opens one eye and studies the translucent projection standing over the bed. It’s thin, undetermined, hazy, diluted. There is no weight to it, no shadow; he couldn’t feel threatened if he tried.

“Well done, other me,” He congratulates, “You can project. Sister will be proud.”

_Tell me what you want._

“This,” He takes a sharp breath, digs his nails into the sheets. Skims his own stomach. Presses one hand to his throat, the other crawls low and he grips his neck hard. Chokes lightly and curiously. Other hand low enough to burn. Bring his blood to baying. Touch is sinful and encompassing, and the tactile feedback loops gleefully in his head. **Malik** is lost to the silky texture of the world, groaning in pleasure.

_Stop that._

“Make me?” **Malik** shuts both eyes, and presses back on the bed. An untidy scrawl of spine, and snapping muscles and—

_Stop it!_

There is a definite pull that time, as Malik mentally mouths at the bit, chews at the ropes, exists – truly exists - for one second in his life—

The strength, and more, the pitiful weakness of the strength is unbelievably arousing, and the fire flows white hot. He lets it splash the corners of his senses; oh touch is sinful, sinful, sinful.

He lies dazed, a smile toying at his mouth, and eyes half-lidded. Distantly, **Malik** can hear his dominant part snarling, half-sobbing in frustration. They’re both panting, but where the Other One is tired, begging for air, **Malik** is taking long, shallow, satisfied breaths. This difference is sweeter than fire.

“Tired? Me too,” He offers wolfishly, but when he looks up, the projection has flicked out. Broken under the strain of fighting for control. There is still the panting mantra in his skull, almost irritating, but mostly delicious.

_Stop it, just stopit, stopitstopitSTOP it._

He mentally shrugs, feels Malik study the movement, quiets in fascination and **Malik** stretches every last cord of his mind. Shows off the feral strength of a chained alter. Then, smirking, he lifts his fingers to his mouth, and licks them clean. Throws the taste of it into the dark, to his dominant personality, like scraps for a dog. It is more than **Malik** ever got.

* * *

Water feels different to blood – closer to the heart of the matter. Wetter, more important, deeper and thinner. The cool flow of it is music to his brain, and he swallows hard, gulps. He remembers the distant ache of the desert, and the memory is dry, cool enough underground, but raw at the throat. He pours the liquid gold over his face, lets the silver melt into riverlets, jewel in his tangled hair, catch on his earrings.

He shakes the water out, like he has not thrown life (liquidated, pure capital) everywhere like pity for the poor.

Living is like this; surrounded by the riches of movement, touch, taste and casual with each one.

“Hey, little one,” He calls to the silence at his back, “You squandered this.”

 _no i loved it…_ malik’s voice is faint

“Not enough,” He shakes his hair again, and remembers the hot texture of tacking blood. The catch of it on his fingers. How he loves blood, and more than Malik does.

_don't_

The pull is harder, a little desperate, but sweetly weak still.

“You do not love anything enough to deserve it,” He decides to inform Malik, “Not even our brother and sister.”

_you love neither._

“I won’t be keeping either, mind,” He pauses, “Hey, interesting she should join us, mh?” He thinks for a moment, “Convenient, heh.”

The terror that spurts up from his other side is like a gush of blood, and **Malik** drinks deeply. But the hate is bitter in the aroma of the fear, flavor of anger, the deep despair and appealing helplessness. The hate is foul. The whole thing does not taste near as good as it should.

* * *

“Perhaps I will spare Isis?” He offers to the mute shadows, “Too late for Rishid, but her?” There is no reply, “Suit yourself.”

He takes a minute to realize he has not implicitly included Malik himself in the offer. Because he has no immediate intention of killing Malik. Perhaps he had no real intention to ever kill him. Perhaps he just wishes to keep him at the back of the mind, like a pet. Encase him in shadows and glass, wrap him in the translucent dark. Keep him. Protect. Keep the light and fire of the world from him in the airless dark. Deny him, spite him.

Life is pain after-all, better Malik does not; he is weak with it and **Malik** relishes it, as it should be relished. It allows his world to turn. There is a bite and a bruise, he has done to himself, to prove that he understands where pain features in his life. He breathes hard and gratefully. Burns eagerly. That is proof.

And Malik is nothing but wet, wet pain, all for **Malik** to drink down whenever he wants.

He begins to plan lazily, about how exactly how he will proceed on this. Fashions traps and chains and glass; can picture it freshly. Indulge in it. For a moment, his reality is anchored, tidily anchored to his dominant self. Held up by strings. Utter in its attention. Consumed.

He is halfway through planning this forever with his other side, when that consumption comes to his attention. He is hatred, pain, anger and yes – even fear – pulled loose and left bare in the dark, and all of that is flush with strength. He is a raw bundle of rage, and the shutter-snap against helplessness – has never been stronger than this moment, with Malik quaking in his heart. He is a monster. These are things he has always known, enjoyed even.

But he was born with purpose; burning and sliding over their skin in long slices. He protects his dominant self from the pain and fear, after-all you hate to avoid pain, but you snarl because it is better than being afraid. Malik centers him, brings him to himself, makes sense of him.

He will feed them all to the shadows, then, except Malik. The shadows are their knife-deep armour, and **Malik’s** hounds. They are pets, as much as Malik is. To be fed and cared for and the leash pulled tight, if need be.

He exists, more or less, as part of something else. He feels things more than himself. He is not the sum of his parts, he belongs to more.

The thought – swollen and gagging, though it is – is not hard to bear. Hardly; it is delightful. Miraculous. He is a monster for what could only be the most basic of loves, the love of self. He truly adores himself. Will wrap himself about the strong mirror image, and pull them both down into the dark. Whisper hatefully and blissfully to his other self, and keep him there inside his heart, make **Malik** more and more. He loves Malik, he does; there have never been monsters with so beautiful a purpose.

* * *

“My other self,” He calls lazily, “Where are you?” **Malik** must tell him of this strange, marvelous miracle. **Malik** loves him. Loves him enough to keep him safe and helpless.

“Other me,” He bids, “Come here, come here.”

He loves him, and Malik is his. The concept is absolute; what is his is to be loved. Hoarded. Tap into Malik’s pain, and fear and horror and sucking, sucking need. Tap into it, like a knife into skin and bleed him dry, drain him in a quick sucking, sucking motion. Feel Malik well with numb peace. Preserve him, guard against the sun; **Malik** is a shadow from light, and he can take it.

“Malik,” He bays, “Come to me, I love you little one.”

Malik is a rotten child, better in **Malik’s** heart than anywhere else. Better there than anywhere else.

* * *

He pulls his lips back. Fury is tight across his chest, and he can feel it pound in his head. That drum beat of oxygen and blood. _His_ other self, _his_ Malik, _his_ is wrapped about the lithe Spirit. Malik is fierce, and helpless, and the Spirit is nothing but a knife-edge. The Spirit smirks with a snarl of teeth, a self-confident sneer born of thousands of years. Possessive, and manipulative, and demanding the right to see the scars that birthed **Malik**.

 **Malik** is six, and this Spirit dances out of his reach. A talented, and skilled twist of the mind. A hold over his host’s soul so absolute, the millennium rod is nothing to it.

 **Malik** is six, and this thing is old, older than dust, older than fire.

 **Malik** is nothing but a child to this creature, some shadow to scrub out.

And Malik is wrapped about this ancient soul.

The jealousy is hot as boiled blood, and the urge to protect is painful in his chest, and he can’t breathe past it. The air is spiny, winding its way through his veins. He will kill them all – host, Spirit, self – gladly to never feel this again.

“I am the dominant side,” He growls to himself. He is strong. Strong with this hate and whining, murderous rage in his heart. He is the dominant self.

tch _,_ the Spirit laughs highly at him; some amused king, don’t make me laugh, the Spirit spits into **Malik’s** soul, he will chew you up and swallow you whole.

The wraith, the white-haired wraith smiles a halo of sharp fangs. This monster loves Malik a little, enough, and dares claim. Wants. Hungry, enough. He will chew Malik up, spit him out again. **Malik** hates, and hate is so bitter.

“I will burn and boil you from bone to—”

gold? the suggestion is coy and knowing, as the Spirit brushes a fingernail to his ring, try me shadow, try me.

* * *

 

Malik must be dead, he supposes, and everything aches to think it. His skull stings. He was born of Malik, and preserved Malik and Malik is dead. Even that ancient, cold Spirit is gone, and the host with him, and the ring is heavier than he thought on his neck and Malik too.

He gathers himself—

* * *

But Malik lives, and the grief in **Malik’s** heart burns in the air. He will kill Malik, he will kill him, he will take him into the dark of the shadows games, and slit his throat. Keep every last spurt of blood for himself. Everything will be his. He will take Malik so utterly, there is no room for Malik **himself**. He loves him, oh he loves him, loves him red and ashen and completely and wholly.

The strength of this want grinds **Malik’s** teeth, sucks air in too sharp.

* * *

“Come out, come out,” He howls, throwing his mind into the dark, and sending it skittering in clumps of shadows. The Spirit has taught Malik to cloak, to hide, to sit still and quiet, and wait for **Malik** to pass him over. **Malik** will not go, “Come out, other self!” The anger and want is too fresh, cloying on his tongue, and he licks his teeth, “I know you live, little one!” He crushes a segment at the back of the mind, stamps down hard, and a moan drowns **Malik’s** skull.

“There you are!”

He drags Malik out, pulling feelings from him in reams. Another thin moan as pain and despair hits the ground. Another one when dread joins it in a red pool on the floor of their head.

“Hurts, right?” Malik is a dazed writhe of mind, slippery in his own nervous system, tacky with dislodged thoughts and emotions.

“Nothing hurts more than anything ever could, right?”

A shivery whimper, and he reaches in to pull fear out by the roots, let his own anger feast on it, gorge on Malik’s terror.

“I’ll take Rishid’s heart out, so you’re never free,” He laughs, licks at the feelings, “Reach into his chest, pry his ribs open, pluck his heart strings, pull him a part, play with him as you have played with me!”

Malik pulls away from him, mind shying back. Slips in the pool of blood, and **Malik** throws himself upon him, ripping and tearing.

“I wasn’t going to kill you,” He seizes the scrabbling mind by the squirming roots, “I love you,” Yanks Malik towards him, and bites into the nerves that bind his lesser half to the brain, “I wanted you, I wanted you around,” Split parts of it away, “You make me better!” He groaned in pleasure as the front of Malik’s thoughts came away, haemorrhaging feeling. Drained. Gaped open.

“I was going to keep you,” Another splatter of emotions; Malik’s mind was pale with nothing, nothing, nothing—

“But now?” He laughs, sobs, “Now I am going to let the Dark swallow you alive! I am going to feed you to the shadows!” He shakes Malik’s mind, feels tendrils snap, “Now you get to be nothing!” Keeps shaking, “Nothing!” Snarls, “You get to be nothing!”

His lesser self is too weak, too useless to moan. Just a rag doll, blood-soaked in his own dripping feelings. Even the mental projection is flickering weakly. Shivering.

“You get to be nothing now!”

It is not as satisfying as he hoped.

* * *

When Malik reawakens, **Malik** sits across from him and grins, “We duel the Pharaoh,” He can taste Malik’s pain salivating like an exposed wound, “I’ll let you see that finished, little one.”

 _i_. _dontcareany more_

“Mhm,” **Malik** shrugs, “Doesn’t matter, little one, how _could_ you share yourself with that undead beast? You’re clearly mine.”

 _The body is still mine; it knows me better_.

The Spirit has clearly been too informative, and **Malik** rolls his eyes, “The mind, and the blood, and the bone, and the body are mine,” Hates the Spirit even worse, “And you are mine.”

_it is minenot! yours!_

“ _All_ of you is mine,” He reminds, “Come little one,” He moves forward quickly to pin his other self, pulls his mind up, “Let me show you a real master for these bones.”

* * *

**Malik** isn’t anything without Malik.

* * *

**He resents that.**

* * *

**Malik** feels the pull now; it is more cunning, stronger, more definite. Fueled with need, and pulling it from **Malik**. The Spirit has taught the other Malik to bite back, made a mockery of this pet, has to be put down, has to be put down. Still, **Malik** can feel the body respond to the familiar pull. Even with Malik’s mind flayed, it is the true master. The usual master. The one who has lived in it more, knows it better. The first one, and the constant one, and the blood knows it. The whole body knows it.

Knows Malik.

 **Malik** was born from pain, because life is pain, but pain is life to him. He was born to shield Malik, protect him and hoard him away. **Malik** is nothing alone. He still resents that. The pull sounds again, and the shadows whimper, and the blood howls.

 **Malik** shrugs away connections, will more than faltered, but outright despairing.

Sheds control.

“We’ve always been close, right?” He thinks this is true, but he sounds desperate, pleading. Giving permission. Crush the worm beneath your foot, in as many words.

Malik doesn’t need it. **Malik** is meant to die for the sadistic beast he bled out. Skinned. He saved them. He saved them. He loves them, and saved them from the monster grinning father.

 **Malik** was birthed at knife-point, and **Malik** saved them, and he is meant to and is going to die for it.

Malik is eager, thirsty for the kill.

 **Malik** is still nothing.

—save that quiet protective burn. It is dull, tired, but there, as miraculous as it was from the instant he realized it. The Spirit has not poisoned his other side against him, he did that himself. But he saved them.

Saved him, even.

He takes comfort in the fact some of Malik will always live in the dark, shudder under the weight of doubt. **Malik** is going to die, but at least he does not suffer that. He feels fulfilled, not content, still whole enough. He does not deserve this, not entirely. He wins.

His last words will not be pleas, especially if Malik is a monster and doesn’t need them.

 _I still love you, little one, if you were wondering_.

He settles into the void, surrenders to the nothing with a frightened gasp. Is left breathless, as the flicker of his soul (all his love, and all his pain) is snuffed out too soon, and too sudden.


End file.
